Of the Serpent
by BethCG
Summary: In 1977, Severus makes a decision that forever changes the course of his life.


TITLE: Of the Serpent  
AUTHOR: CobraGirl  
RATING: PG  
SPOILERS: GoF, tiny one for SS/PS and PoA  
ARCHIVE: ff.n, FictionAlley - go ahead. Anywhere else - ask first.  
NOTES: Dedicated to my dear friend Alicey, who can now smoke, gamble, and buy porn. Hope I did your darling Snape justice...happy belated 18th birthday! *snugs*  
DISCLAIMER: If these characters and settings were mine, the fifth book would _never_ be released. Fortunately for fans worldwide, they belong to J.K. Rowling, who has a great deal more motivation than I do. Count your blessings, and please don't sue.

  


Severus was always deaf in his dreams.

As far as he knew, it had never been differently. He'd never exactly bothered to chronicle his dreams; they always slipped and skidded through the cracks of his mind whenever he tried to remember them. In the ones he _could_ recall, though, the events played out in a soundless tapestry around him.

So even though he could see the Muggle's mouth agape, watch her close her eyes against the blood that ran down her forehead in thick streaks - and he could _smell_ the blood despite being ten paces away, warm and acrid and coppery - he couldn't hear the scream that was surely ripping the air apart. She was tied to the ground, beaten and broken, caught in the throes of the Cruciatus Curse. Severus could sense that they were in the center of a dense crowd, but all he could make out were shadows that flitted about in the corners of his eyes.

He lowered his wand. The Muggle collapsed, chest heaving. A group of shadows flickered and coalesced into a hooded figure; it approached the woman and knelt down beside her, using two fingers to tilt her face upward.

Whatever was exchanged between them must have been unpleasant, for the Muggle bared her teeth and spat into the figure's face. The clear gobs that hit it were tinted pink with blood.

There was a heavy pause. With surprising calm, the figure reached up and wiped its face. As it got to his feet, it gave Severus a curt nod. Shadowed lips mouthed a single command:

Kill her.

He couldn't hesitate. He could only act. Raising his wand again, feeling his throat buzz and constrict with inaudible words, Severus shouted a curse he was unable to hear.

And the Muggle was...was destroyed. Inverted. Her form seemed to twist and implode, and with a sudden soundless explosion, muscles and bones and organs were splayed over the grass in a freakish anatomical display. 

The detached, cold feeling suddenly drained from him. His skin prickled, his stomach lurched - the putrid smell was overwhelming - 

  


  


- and he woke up.

For a few seconds he was motionless, unable to do anything but gasp for breath. Then his stomach clenched again, more urgent this time, and his throat started to cinch shut.

He shoved his sheets aside and stumbled out of bed, nearly collapsing on shaky legs. It was getting harder to swallow. Gulping down air to distract himself, he staggered in the direction of the seventh-year bathroom, lunged for the crystal knob, and slammed the door shut behind him. He barely had time to lock the door before his stomach gave a final twist and sent him to his knees.

It didn't matter that he'd barely eaten over the past few days - he was violently sick all the same, his body forcing him to heave up anything and everything it could. When it ended a seeming eternity later, he could do nothing but rest his forehead against the cool porcelain, trembling and still coughing weakly. His throat burned, his temples pounded, and his left forearm was prickling horribly. He fumbled for the sleeve of his robe and pushed it back. The tattoo was, thankfully, a light pink...the pain was a dream remnant, or a sudden memory bubbling up in its wake. Massaging it with the pad of his thumb, he closed his eyes and willed it to pass.

Five minutes went by before he could raise his head. He spat into the bowl to try and clear the taste from his mouth and slowly pushed himself up onto his feet. The toilet flushed obligingly, whispering, "Poor dear, that's the third time this week...you really should go see Madam Pomfrey."

Severus managed to shake his head, mumbling something about it being nothing, before turning on the sink and scooping cool water into his mouth. A few gulps of it helped ease the burning in his throat; a few more brought the bile taste down to a manageable level. He splashed another handful onto his face and groped for a towel. Finally raising his head, he slowly mopped away the water and watched his reflection emerge in the mirror.

He looked horrible. It wasn't surprising, but he hadn't expected to look _this_ bad. His skin was even paler than usual, mottled by a faint green tinge that made him feel queasy all over again just by looking at it. Dark purple splotches, testament to just how little sleep he'd gotten lately, hovered under his eyes, puffy and prominent against the whiteness.

He hadn't wanted to do it - and here he had to grab the sides of the sink as another sharp wave of nausea rolled over him - but he'd had no choice. Stupid expression; of _course_ he'd had a choice, and he'd chosen acceptance and self-preservation over death and alienation, even if that meant doing...what he'd done. That was what Slytherins _did_. He wasn't some prat Gryffindor, always fighting for the noble and just causes. When it came to this battle, he'd like to come out with his own skin intact.

And...he'd wanted once, just once, to show that he was something beyond an awkward misfit. The ones who'd had the courage to proclaim their loyalty were treated with something bordering on reverence in the Slytherin dormitories. Awe, respect, fear: they were all directed at the Death Eaters. He wanted to look into the faces of Potter and his gang and smirk, knowing that he had power over them, whether or not they knew it.

So he'd proclaimed loyalty and was initiated, he and a small group of classmates, four weeks ago. He was the only one who'd made it to the last round, where the initiates had to torture and kill a Muggle using any curses they wished.

But it'd been worth it, he angrily insisted to himself the first time his conscience pelted one of these damned sickness-inducing dreams at him, after he'd washed out his mouth and scrubbed his face with more fervor than was necessary. At least he had protection. At least he had the knowledge that he wasn't going to end up like the Prewetts - that his _family_ wouldn't end up like the Prewetts. At least he had some measure of power, which was more than he could claim before.

A sigh escaped his lips. Still trembling slightly, he raised his head and stared into his own eyes. Everything was perfectly still and perfectly silent; he wondered, for a fleeting instant, if he was still dreaming.

Then, without preamble or fanfare, a single thought emerged: _I can't do this anymore._

It wasn't even a thought, really...thoughts could be changed or amended, after all. This was solid knowledge. It was a fact.

He couldn't do this anymore.

There was an odd ringing in his ears. Quietly, he turned off the faucet and hung the towel back on its rack. He moved almost robotically, detached, feeling as if he was watching himself from a great distance. After making sure the bathroom bore no trace of his presence, he unlocked the door and began navigating the labyrinthine passageways of the Slytherin dormitories.

It was early yet, barely past sunrise, and only a few other students were awake. Nobody paid any attention to Severus as he slipped out of the common room and into the hallway. It was deserted; his footsteps sounded like cannon blasts as he followed the sloping passage up toward the entrance hall.

He'd been to the Headmaster's office numerous times due to his constant scuffles with Potter and company, though he hadn't visited since his brush with Lupin last year. This marked the first time he'd paid a voluntary visit, however, an occurrence that his mind immediately latched onto and granted an unnecessary amount of significance. Vaguely, he wondered if Professor Dumbledore was in his office - or if he was even awake yet, for that matter.

One foot in front of the other. That was it. That was all he needed. If he kept focusing on his steps, mentally urging himself onward, he could ignore what was waiting for him.

He was almost there. As he rounded a final corner, his feet suddenly broke into a run. A few first-years jumped out of his way and glared at his retreating back, but he paid them no mind. He skidded to a stop in front of the Headmaster's office, and - 

The gargoyle. He'd forgotten about the gargoyle. Of all the things to forget, it had to be one of the most important. Still panting a little, he stared at it for a second before venturing, "Acid pop?"

Not surprisingly, the creature didn't respond to a year-old password. Sighing, he slouched down against its base and let his head fall back against the granite. Another professor would surely come by soon and let him in.

Absently, he began to gnaw on his knuckles, a nervous habit he thought he'd abandoned years ago. More distractions, more ways to draw his attention from the fire in his arm and the sudden chills he couldn't shake. It wasn't until he tasted copper that he realized he'd chewed clear though his skin. He took his hand out of his mouth and stared at the blood, puzzled, before wrapping his sleeve around it and pressing down to stop the flow.

The hallway was becoming more crowded as more and more students started trickling toward the Great Hall. A few peered at him closely, quizzically; he avoided their eyes when he could and hugged himself to stay warm. Why was it suddenly so cold?

"Mr. Snape?"

He snapped his head upward in the direction of the sound. "Headmaster," he whispered. 

Albus Dumbledore frowned slightly as he took in Severus' appearance. "Are you all right?" he asked, squatting down until he was on eye level with him.

"That's...." He struggled to stand up, pushing against the gargoyle for support; Dumbledore took his arms to help him to his feet. He hissed in pain as the headmaster unwittingly gripped the mark on his left arm. When he looked back up at the wizened face, he saw that Dumbledore's eyes were dark with concern.

"I need to talk to you," he said at last. "I-it's very important. Please."

Dumbledore must have sensed the urgency in his voice, for he merely nodded and turned to the gargoyle. "Sugar quill," he said. The creature obediently hopped aside, and he stepped onto the moving spiral staircase. Severus followed close behind.

Neither one spoke during the entire ride upward. When they reached the heavy oak door, Dumbledore rummaged around in his robes until he produced a large ring with several dozen keys on it, ranging from tiny Muggle housekeys to giant golden ones etched with indecipherable patterns. Selecting one - a medium-sized, thoroughly nondescript silver key - he tapped it against the brass knocker and waited.

A second later, the gryphon adorning the knocker opened its beak. Dumbledore inserted the key into its mouth and gave it a quick twist to the left. There was a barely audible click, and the door swung open silently, admitting them into the office.

"Have a seat," Dumbledore said as he shut the door behind them. Severus sank into the armchair in front of the headmaster's desk, wrapping his arms around himself (he couldn't stop shivering, why couldn't he stop shivering?) and giving Fawkes a quick glance. The phoenix, only a few months past its Burning Day, eyed him serenely and ruffled its glowing plumage.

"Now, what is it you need, Severus?"

He forced his gaze back toward the headmaster. "I...." His mouth was dry, too dry to talk, and it took all his energy to swallow past the tight lump in his throat. Dumbledore showed no sign of impatience, merely folding his hands atop his desk and furrowing his eyebrows slightly.

"I did something," he choked out at last. "Something horrid. It's...I...." He was shaking even worse than before, prompting another worried frown from Dumbledore. Unconsciously, he began massaging his left arm. "I shouldn't have, I wish I hadn't, but if I'd backed out at the very end I would've died, and all I wanted was some safety and protection and to - to _belong_ to something and I kept telling myself it was worth it but it's not, it's not, and I...."

His right hand trailed down to the hem of his sleeve. Fumbling desperately, barely able to do it for the tremors in his hands, he pushed back the cloth to reveal the Dark Mark.

To his credit, if Dumbledore was shocked, he made no sign of it. Gently, he reached out and took Severus' arm in both his hands, rolling the sleeve back further and leaning close to inspect the tattoo. With equal gentleness, he prodded it with his fingers, glancing at him every so often to judge his reaction. Severus turned his face away.

"How long?" Dumbledore's voice was soft and surprisingly level.

"About a month," he mumbled. He felt something warm on his face and reached up to see what it was. Tears. He hadn't realized he'd been crying.

The professor set his arm down. "And have you used any of the Unforgivables?"

His throat constricted. Blinking furiously, he managed a nod.

"Which ones?"

"Cruciatus." He flicked his gaze toward Dumbledore for an instant before looking away again. "And there was another one...it's not outlawed, but it - "

_muscles and bones and a pretty face twisting in on itself_

" - it can kill." He wouldn't be sick. Not here. Not again.

The headmaster sighed deeply. Standing up, he walked over to Fawkes and unhooked its cage door. "I'm glad you came to me, Severus," he said as the bird nuzzled his arm; he gave it an absent pat and stared out the window. "It takes a great deal of bravery to admit our mistakes, moreso than avoiding a mistake in the first place, I believe. However," he suddenly turned back to him, an unreadable expression on his face, "this is an extremely serious matter, one I cannot take lightly."

Severus pushed his sleeve back down. "Yes," he whispered bitterly. "I know."

"I will need to contact the Ministry and discuss this further. You're young still, so perhaps your sentence will not be as harsh. But this cannot go unpunished."

Severus' mind was reeling. "I understand," he heard himself say.

Dumbledore settled himself behind his desk once more. "Go back to your common room and try to rest," he told him, his voice uncommonly gentle. "You look like you need it."

He nodded dumbly and got to his feet. It felt as if his heart had stopped beating. One foot in front of the other....

He hadn't gone ten paces before a thought suddenly struck him, shocking him back to life. He whirled to face Dumbledore again.

"I can give you information," he blurted out.

The headmaster cocked his head. "Information?"

"Yes." He was breathing hard, ears pounding, heart fluttering desperately. "Names, plans, places. I - I'm not high enough in the hierarchy to know much, but if it would help, I can give it to you. And I can go back and gather more if you need it."

Anything to avoid Azkaban, anything for self-preservation.

"Severus...." Dumbledore was on his feet again, swiftly walking around his desk until he stood in front of him. "Please, be rational. While I don't deny that it would prove valuable, what you're offering to do is _beyond_ dangerous. I would not ask it of a fully-trained Auror, let alone one of my own students."

"Then I'll tell you what I know now. Please, just - "

"_Severus_," the headmaster repeated, more sharply this time, as he rested a hand on his shoulder to quiet him. "Go back to your common room. I will discuss this with the Ministry."

Severus hesitated, then nodded again and turned to leave. His hand was on the doorknob when Dumbledore's words halted him.

"Would you...honestly, if it were necessary, take that sort of burden upon yourself?"

He looked back over his shoulder. Something flickered in Dumbledore's eyes: interest that almost bordered on excitement.

Self-preservation. If _Dumbledore_ was giving even the slightest consideration to his offer, then the Ministry would jump aboard without any hesitation. He would just had to tread the line with the utmost care, never letting the Dark Lord know of his double identity, and he could garner protection from both sides. There were ways to avoid using the Unforgivables, ways to keep his profile low. And there would be no imprisonment or threats on his life.

Salazar would have been proud.

"Yes," he said simply, and pulled open the office door.

  


=end= 


End file.
